


Gentle Sin

by userkant



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And of course..., Canon Compliant, Dom Louis, Dom/sub Undertones, Excessive use of pet names, Hair-pulling, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Love Bites, M/M, Making Love, Pain Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Spanking, Sub Harry, again a mention of likening sexual acts to religious experiences, baby boyfriends, in which it's, this is becoming a brand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/userkant/pseuds/userkant
Summary: Harry gasps. He gasps at what must be a sudden pain, or maybe at his sudden orgasm that has him tightening around Louis, forcing Louis’ own release, or maybe all of these things are connected.Or, Louis discovers a few things about Harry.A fic about kink exploration and pleasure-pain featuring baby boyfriends, tenderness, and gentle dom Louis.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 60
Kudos: 482
Collections: HL Kink Festival 2019





	Gentle Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the HL Kink Fest 2019.

He likes it most when they make love. 

He likes it slow, and sweet, and deep gazes and reverent touches and exhalations of awe. Harry’s body is built for it, anyway, all soft curves and soft eagerness and soft cheeks and hands and even his _eyelashes_ are soft when they flutter against Louis’ chest. 

It’s how they’ve always been doing it. 

Louis is just so _overwhelmed_ by him, by his kindness and humour and quirks without a lack of self-consciousness because he _knows_ Louis will always back him up, clear a path for him to be unapologetically himself. It is the shape of his desire, the scale of his admiration, and he wants to coat Harry in it, lavish him and praise him for the wonder that he is.

It’s never so prominent as it is now, this desire, when the last of their clothes are off and Harry is spread out on their bed like he’s waiting for Louis to do anything to him. It gets to his head, sometimes, the certainty, the way Harry gives his body over to Louis and trusts him to know his body, to make him feel good. 

God, he’s so alive, this precious creature, and all for Louis. 

He raises his hand to cup Harry’s face, lifts his head to look Harry in the eyes. He knows his expression is one of marvel, can see the same thing reflected back in Harry’s, and it’s just too much not to lean down. 

Harry’s lips are slightly wet, and he kisses Louis messily, eagerly. It drives Louis insane, the slight dirtiness of it, and the way Harry relaxes his mouth for Louis’ tongue, Louis’ lips, Louis’ teeth, lets him have anything he wants and gives it freely. 

”God, Hazza,” Louis moans. “So perfect. Gonna treat you so good, gonna love you, gonna make you come.” The space between every word—suspended between their lips—feels sacred, a space so private that even their breaths are shared. Louis revels in it, wants everything of Harry, all he will give him.

When Harry breaks off the kiss, his eyes are dark. He pushes at Louis’ shoulders, pushes him down, and pouts at Louis’ teasing laugh though Louis goes willingly enough. 

“So impatient, baby. I’m gonna give it to you, you gonna wait?” 

Harry groans like this is the most dramatic, vexing thing to ever happen to him, and throws a leg over Louis’ shoulder wantonly. “Yeah, but ‘m getting bored over here.”

Louis tuts kisses into Harry’s ankle. “Naughty, baby. You want my fingers?”

“ _Yeah_ , Lou c’mon.” Harry wriggles a little, getting comfortable, and softly hums as Louis reaches over for the lube. He seems perfectly content, perfectly happy as his eyes track the movement of Louis’ hand like a satisfied kitten. 

This happiness feels like Louis’ responsibility, now. It still feels unbelievable to have access to Harry’s body like this, to have such capacity to inadvertently hurt him, to shatter his overwhelming trust while it, _they_ , are still so new. 

So he goes slow.

He always takes care when opening Harry up, always makes sure that his body is relaxed and that he is reduced to incoherent little whimpers and half-formed demands and ‘ _ready, Lou_ ’s before he lines himself up and pushes in.

He does that slow, too. 

It’s heady, the way Harry’s stomach tenses a little because Louis’ in there, somewhere, but he seems a little more impatient tonight, biting his lip and nodding for Louis to move in a single-minded determination to accommodate him, even if he has to carve it of his own body.

Louis still hesitates for a second, though, just one second more, because they haven’t done this all that much and the thought of accidentally hurting Harry still petrifies him. Harry must notice.

“I’m okay, Lou, yeah? Wanna do this.” His voice is earnest, low, and his eyes urge Louis on as he spreads his thighs and shifts his hips.

And now that he lets himself feel it, this—wrapped in Harry’s tight, perfect heat—is heaven, his favourite place in the world. Louis scrunches his eyes for a second, feeling a little young and inexperienced and so ready to _burst_ _,_ but the feeling recedes and he opens his eyes again to his sweet Harry.

It’s all for Harry, anyway. All he does, everything, it’s always for him, to make him laugh, to make him happy, to make him feel good. The weight of his love for Harry settles in his bones, but it’s a feeling of comfort; Harry has already warmed him there. 

He starts to move, then, slow at first and then faster, as Harry relaxes around him. For a while, it’s only the sound of their bodies coming together and their rapid whimpers and moans as they get lost in the pleasure of each other. 

Harry’s more demanding than usual, too, more feverish and hungry. Louis’ hand travels over Harry’s body, less carefully than before, creating little paths with his nails along his sides, his back, his thighs. He’s getting close, and Harry must be too, because his hips jerk as Louis digs his nails in, and his eyes turn impossibly darker. 

“ _Baby_ _,”_ Louis breathes, and he wants to give him everything, in this moment. “You like that, baby?” 

He’s never heard Harry moan like when he twists Harry’s nipple with one hand and tightens his grip on his hip with the other, but it spurs him on. He’s never felt so out of control but so powerful at the same time, able to draw these broken sounds from Harry, make him writhe on the bed and pant so heavily.

“Can I roll over, Lou? Wanna do it like that?” 

The breathless request is sudden. They’ve never done it from behind; it has always felt too impersonal and the opposite of what they come together to do, but Harry’s panting and his pupils are so, so wide and Louis feels crazy, so gone in pleasure and Harry that he will give him anything. 

“Yeah,” Louis pants.

He turns Harry over, handles his boneless limbs with less care than he usually would in his arousal, but Harry only moans louder.

He’s lovely like this; face down, bottom in the air, giving himself over to Louis, over to his whims and desires, to the steadily-building pace of his thrusts. He takes them all, takes everything, emitting only the soft encouragement of whines and breaths when Louis shapes him into what he wants, nudges his thigh out a bit more, presses down to further accentuate the obscene curve of his back. 

Louis is getting close again, and he can tell that Harry is too. His entire body is shaking with the force of Louis’ thrusts, jostling the curls spread messily across the pillow. Louis, pleasure-crazy, doesn’t think much past his sudden desire to bunch the tresses in his hand, tug Harry’s head up to see his face as he comes. He wants to see if he can shape this too, if Harry will bend for him the way he always does.

And Harry gasps. He gasps at what must be a sudden pain, or maybe at his sudden orgasm that has him tightening around Louis, forcing Louis’ own release, or maybe all of these things are connected, but Louis can’t think, can’t think, can’t think.

\---

It’s busy after that, too busy for Louis to take Harry apart the way he wants to, with hot hands and powerful thrusts until Harry is a breathless, blushing mess. He’s restless, too, and seeing Harry fall apart under his hands is a _need_ now, rather than a _want_ _._

The thing is, there are many ways to make Harry Styles blush. So he improvises.

\---

They’re being carted around from interview to interview, and he’s tired, and they’ve got a show later, and he craves Harry.

It’s just his luck, too, that the current interviewer takes a liking to Harry, and flirts with him shamelessly, girlishly, every chance she gets.

It boils in his blood, this comfort Harry inspires in people to place a hand on his knee, kiss his cheek, hug his waist, and he’s struck by the overwhelming urge to claim Harry as his. Because no, everybody _isn’t_ actually allowed to touch this precious thing. It’s only _him_ ; Harry’s _his_.

So when the next vapid question leaves her pouting, overpainted lips, and it’s something about girls again, or crushes, he doesn’t actually give a fuck, he decides he’s had enough.

He leans over Niall to get to Harry, interrupting the interviewer once more. Harry’s soft cheek in his hand feel like a rebellion, a quiet victory against the desires of the world that he’s temporarily been allowed to claim, but it doesn’t feel _enough_ _,_ doesn’t feel like he’s left a mark on Harry that everyone can see.

So he pinches it, craves the second of redness it will elicit on Harry’s perfect, porcelain skin, and craves the laugh it elicits, too, because Harry somehow, miraculously, doesn’t mind the touch—leans into it, in fact. He offers himself up for the next pinch, and the next, and Louis doesn’t stop until Harry’s breathless, cherry-cheeked, the interviewer is all but forgotten, and the fire in his blood has been replaced with bliss.

\---

They’re due on stage any minute now; everyone’s made up and adorned. Harry looks like a dream, especially tonight, dressed in jeans that leave nothing to the imagination and a shirt that exposes most of his chest. He’s gorgeous, always gorgeous, with a cherub smile and hair that looks like it took several hours to arrange.

Just as they’re supposed to go on, he chances a last glance at Harry. A desire to touch him one last time, in private, where he can, overwhelms him, and without really thinking it through, he runs at Harry, crashing into him, and pulls his hands through Harry’s too-perfect, painstakingly-styled curls.

Harry squeals, ducking into himself and squirming to get away, get away from the kisses Louis’ peppering to his face, his hair, anywhere he can reach. But Louis’ grip on his hair is resolute, unyielding, and Harry’s uncoordinated twists only mess it up further.

And it must hurt now. It must—Harry’s held up by his hair at an unnatural angle, and Louis’ grip still firm—but Harry’s grinning, wildly, with hungry eyes. 

Louis lets go with a final twist of his hand, afraid to actually hurt him, and takes a second to admire the sight of Harry flushed and mussed and completely dishevelled by his hand before he turns and runs towards the stage.

\---

They’re a few songs in, and Louis has loosened his limbs, his vocal chords, and his inhibitions. He’s keyed up, full of energy from the fans and the music and the bite of vodka in his water bottle.

Liam’s his first target, his favourite for things like this because he’s still so _uptight_ and proper and just needs to be taken down a notch. He waits until a good moment—a particularly sustained solo note—to sneak up behind him and twist his nipple, _hard_ _._

Liam gasps and reacts like he always does, a furrowed brow and sad frown, but barely makes a move to interrupt his solo or retaliate.

And, well, that’s just no fun. He decides he has to do Harry’s too, just to be fair.

He waits until the focus is off Harry—he’ll push his luck, sure, but not _that_ much—and goes to walk past him, all casual-like, wanting the element of surprise. Then he lunges out, suddenly, and pulls at Harry’s puffy nipple. He jumps back just as quickly, anticipating Harry’s answering lunge—

Except.

Except his reaction is not at all what he’d expected. It’s not an indignant squeal, a loud laugh, or even a defensive cross of his arms.

Instead, Harry gasps slightly, pink mouth dropping open, and his eyes drift closed for a fraction of a second before blinks rapidly and seems to catch himself.

Louis doesn’t get a chance to think about this any further, though, because it’s his turn to sing.

\---

They’re both sweaty when they fall into their room.

Harry pulls off his shirt, leaving him in the low-slung trousers that expose an indecent amount of his hips and emphasise the sweet curve of his little bum. Louis can’t tear his gaze away from that tantalizingly fleshy part of him—has always loved it, really—and it’s almost second-nature to walk past and whip his towel right across Harry’s ass.

Harry howls, but he has no defences, no weapon except for his gangly limbs that try to grab blindly at Louis’ hands, grappling in vain to subdue the attack.

Louis goes in for the prize, then, knowing that if all else fails, Harry can be subdued with thorough tickles. Harry yelps and tries to squirm away, but he’s helpless, now, a giggling mess against Louis.

Louis cackles in victory and wrangles him down to the carpet, pins his flailing limbs with his own until he’s all around Harry, nowhere for him to go, and ties the towel jokingly around the wrists behind his back. He pulls the makeshift handcuff tight, probably bordering on painful, just to see what Harry will do.

Harry gasps, and the fight leaves his body as he goes soft and pliant. He hums lowly, now seeming completely at ease and uncaring that his limbs must be protesting the angle, the weight, the fact that his cheek is scraping against the harsh grain of the hotel carpet.

Louis keeps his hold a moment longer than he should have, really, because there’s no way this is comfortable for Harry, and pushes down an uncomfortable thrill in his stomach.

He’s ready to apologise as he climbs off Harry, he can’t even properly articulate what _for_ , because it’s an ugly beast, this selfish desire to take Harry and shape him, move him, and his guilt coils in his stomach at the urge.

But that’s when Harry gets up and he sees his face: flushed, breathless, glassy-eyed, and—oh.

Oh.

And suddenly, it makes sense. He’s seen that look before. He’s seen that look many times, in fact, and it’s intimately familiar—the way Harry reacted the other night, in bed, when Louis manhandled him, when he pulled his hair, and then when he did it again at the concert, when he pinched his nipple.

It must feel good for him, this sort of pain, must turn him on, because Louis’ seen him coming undone enough times to recognise the shadow of it in his flushed face just a minute ago.

But then… why hadn’t Harry said? They’d had the sit-down already, had held hands in the dark bedroom when Harry first admitted that he’d like to rim Louis, when Louis had whispered that he’d like to try it bare.

So how does Louis not know, how has he not realised, that what he can do to bring Harry pleasure is not only gentle caresses and soft touches but harshness? That Harry craves something harsh? That he wants Louis to rough him up, mark him up? Unless—

Unless.

Unless Harry doesn’t know himself?

\---

The thoughts stay with Louis all throughout the next few days.

He only becomes more sure of it, his revelation, the more he manages to elicit that hunger from Harry with little pinches, playful slaps, strong grips, sharp tugs on his hair.

Harry reacts deliciously every time, and Louis has begun to live off these little thrills. But he also wonders how Harry would react with everything elevated—when Louis pushes further, under that forgiving blanket of arousal. Whether Harry will also enjoy love-bruises, red-slapped skin.

He gets a chance, finally, when the swirling of his thoughts has ordered somewhat, and they finally get a moment of peace in a private hotel room.

It starts as it always does, though. They begin slowly, passionately, with kisses, and soft whispers while they discard their clothes. It’s something he’ll always love, never tire of—kissing Harry’s soft, full lips, tasting the sweet taste of him, and getting to see his body unveiled for him, only him.

He cradles Harry’s head as he lays him down on the bed, gently, lips never breaking their kiss because he wants to touch Harry endlessly, always. He can feel Harry smile gently into their kiss and hums happily, too, because his delight is paramount, especially to Louis, who lives and breathes for him.

He moves his hand down, slowly, fingers ghosting along Harry’s throat and cupping to feel his pulse, where his precious life flows. It’s slower, yet discernible, to match the relaxed spread of Harry’s limbs, and the peaceful rise and fall of his lovely chest.

Their sex is slow, sensual and comfortable, because this is the way it always goes; Harry rests in the assurance that he will receive nothing but worship and praise, that his body will be treated as something religious, holy, because that's what he is to Louis, a revelation. And Harry loves it, Louis knows; loves being treated like royalty, stroked slowly or loved gently until he comes beautifully and fully, coming apart like golden threads under Louis’ hands.

Still, he wonders.

He wonders if his hand around Harry’s throat will cause that golden pulse to spike, whether it will speed up under his touch, and whether Harry—the question at the centrepiece of everything—will like it.

His lips ghost along Harry’s jaw as he feels for that point again, tracing the soft skin to feel its heady undercurrent. He presses two fingers to his pulse, presses down just for a few seconds, lightly enough—just out of interest, really—and watches as Harry breathes out a soft, little exhale and his eyelashes flutter closed.

Intrigued at the reaction, he moves his mouth to where his finger has just been, to lavish that spot with his tongue and teeth until it turns a delightful, blushing red against Harry’s milky skin. 

“ _Lou_ _,”_ Harry whines, shifting his hips up into Louis’ torso. Louis nuzzles a chuckle into the skin, soothing it with half parts happiness and exasperation at this precious boy; Harry’s impatience is just another thing Louis loves about him.

But he has already decided to try tonight, try to find all the other ways that make Harry blush, make him look like he did at his pinches, his slaps, his tugs of hair. 

“Turn around, baby,” he whispers, helping to turn him on his front. “Wanna play with you a bit.”

Harry’s thighs are soft, with fuzz from the last time he shaved for Louis, a while ago. They’re paler inside, too, untouched by neither sun nor anything else, almost as a secret just for Louis.

He’s spent hours lavishing them before, has peppered them with light kisses and soft touches, but this time, he wants to make a mark on this precious skin, see if the sensitivity will make Harry squirm. Whether the pain will.

He picks a spot closer to the crease of his knee, sucking his mouth around it. He wants to create a chain of lovebites, he thinks, trailing to the thin skin of his upper thigh, wants to see the imprint of his mouth dotted all over where Harry is the most sensitive, private.

He sucks marks on Harry’s inner thigh, obsessed with how bruises bloom under his lips like blemishes on the softest rose petal, obsessed with how he can hear Harry’s breathing hitch every now and again, can see the way his fingers splay and tighten on the sheets. 

It isn’t until the third bite that Harry starts squirming in earnest, grinding against the bed. The muscles of his thighs flex periodically, when Louis bites down particularly hard, and Louis can tell their growing number is starting to affect him.

When Louis pinches the sensitive, reddened skin of his bite mark, Harry actually _keens_ _,_ kicking out his leg.

“Harry?” Louis asks, worried. “I’m sorry, was that too—"

Harry only cries out louder when he stops, though, and shakes his head frantically against the pillow. Louis picks up a few disjointed affirmations, and that’s all the encouragement Louis needs, hungry as he is for it, to dive back into the heaven he’s created for himself between Harry’s red, raw thighs, his blinking, quivering hole, and the damp mess of sheets Harry’s grinding into.

He bites at Harry’s rim lightly, just grazing with his teeth, and he _feels_ it pulse on his lips, can feel Harry’s moan of pleasure before it escapes his lungs. It’s heady, this place, this position of power. He bites at it, licks at it, until he’s puffy, swollen, and slick with his spit.

“Baby,” he pants, reaching for the lube. “Gonna touch you now.”

He fingers Harry quickly, a little roughly with much less care and precision than usual, but neither of them care, not when Louis has ignored his cock for long enough, and not when Harry is squirming to be filled.

Louis taps at the sensitive marks, cups his love handle. “Up, baby.”

Harry whines and props up his ass so that he’s on his knees, his back a long, sinful curve and his face resting on the pillow. He’s spread wide from the angle of his thighs, the exertion of pushing upward to Louis. Louis can see all of him this way, and he pushes in.

And the sight of Harry’s pink hole around his cock, the way it has to stretch to accommodate the additional width, the way that excess lube bubbles around his rim, it drives him insane.

It feels like an illicit thing, to view Harry’s ass so primally, on display, when he is thrusting into it and collecting his pleasure. But he doesn’t have the space to feel guilty, not when this is the hottest _fucking_ thing he’s ever done.

Harry’s just so willing, is the thing, to give and give and give, to push his chest up into Louis’ hands if they are trailing that way, to lean in to every bite and bruise, as if to serve any of Louis’ whims with his own body. It’s intoxicating, the finest wine, and Louis is drinking his fill.

Harry’s hips are being pushed around, dislodged, with every thrust, but Louis’ attention is drawn to the bounce of his ass against his hips, the way it spreads further to make space for Louis, cracked open like a peach.

He imagines making it jiggle properly, and, oh god, making it _red_ _,_ what it would look like with his handprint on it, imagines Harry’s reaction to it, how much he seems to love the pain, and—

He brings down a hand on Harry’s ass.

Harry jolts. He jolts, and then moans the loudest Louis has ever heard it, stretching up obscenely as if to offer himself up on a platter for Louis to take, to do anything with. Louis’ cock twitches at the sight, and, fuck, he’s so fucking hard, he’s so hard it _hurts_ , and all he can think of is yes, this, _more_ _._

Harry’s whining out a stream of broken _please_ s and _Lou_ s, hips grinding against the bed in a stuttering, uneven rhythm, and when he turns his cheek on the pillow Louis can see how hard he’s biting his lip. 

Louis brings his hand down again, on the other cheek this time, and again on the left, and all throughout Harry is losing his mind, and Louis can hear tears now, but he can also feel Harry bringing his ass up even _higher_ _,_ pushing it back, as if to get closer to where Louis is turning his ass hot, red.

He hits a final time, the hardest yet.

And Harry _cries_ out his name, jerking, and then clenches around him in a vice-grip so hard that Louis sees stars.

It’s the best orgasm he’s ever had.

\----

He wakes up, and it’s still fine. It’s still the best morning which followed a best night and he’s wrapped around the best person in the world, who is currently still sleeping soundly with curls all over his forehead and his cheek pressed against the pillow.

In his sleep, Harry is gorgeous and at peace, his full lips in a natural smile from a dream, the softness of the morning, or perhaps his proximity to Louis. He sniffles, occasionally, and Louis imagines these petite breaths fill butterfly wings.

He’s the most beautiful creature Louis knows, or will ever know, and last night with Harry was one of the best of his life.

But then—

Harry shifts in his sleep, stretching unconsciously onto his front to hug the pillow, and the thin sheet of their bedspread slips off the back of his thighs to fall by his side.

And it reveals the marks of the night before. His entire thighs are covered by bruises, dark kisses spanning across the skin like a wretched constellation. When last night they were beautiful, passionate like a velvet rose and red wine, in the warm sunlight filtering through the curtains they seem cruel and garish, the marks of a beast upon a beauty.

His ass, too, is still pink, must still be sore from where Louis had hit him in his passion, losing himself so far beyond what he’d meant to do. 

It’s selfish, too, to bear no consequence of the mutual pleasure, to have the scales of retribution tilt so unfairly towards Harry, someone who only ever deserves light.

Seeing the impact of where he has caused pain, his handiwork marring such a precious being, and knowing that Harry might not even be mad at him, not provide him with the righteous absolution of anger, twists the coil of disgust further into his gut.

He swears to himself that it’s not worth it, that he’ll forget it, forget that wretched hypothesis for which he caused Harry pain, and return to the meadow of comfort and pleasure that suited them both. He will apologise when Harry wakes up, press kisses of repentance into his limbs, his skin, his mouth. He will hold Harry against him, curl his fingers through his soft hair, and whisper words of pride, of love, of kindness. He’ll handle him lightly, softly.

And he will never do that again.

Yes—the next time will be nothing but love.

\---

He feels Harry squirm, which is a thrill until he realises that the way in which Harry is shifting his hips, wriggling up the bed, _away_ from his hand, isn’t saying _go on_ _,_ it’s a sign of discomfort.

Louis retracts his hand immediately, rising to look at Harry’s face.

“Everything alright?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” Harry says, but he bites his lip in a way that’s more nervous than aroused. 

Louis can recognise avoidance when he sees it, can recognise the shy look Harry gets when he’s trying to not tell Louis something he thinks is embarrassing. It’s happened before, a guilt over losing Louis’ glasses, when he forgot about an event. But it’s never happened during sex.

Louis sits back, concerned now, and reaches to brush Harry’s hair off his forehead where it has become slightly damp with sweat. “Love,” he whispers, “was I doing something you didn’t like?”

“No, it was good.” Harry doesn’t look him in the eyes, casting his gaze to somewhere in the direction of Louis’ shoulder, and brings his hands up to play with his fingers, curling in on himself as much as his position will allow, almost as if protecting his chest.

And—well. Louis has always thought that he was good at this, at knowing Harry’s body, listening to exactly what brought him pleasure. It’s one of the few things he’s truly proud of doing, loving Harry, and the threat of failure stings.

“Harry,” he breathes, cupping his cheek. “You know you can tell me, yeah? I couldn’t stand it if I did something you didn’t like. Am I doing it in the wrong place? Does it hurt, or—”

Harry shakes his head vehemently, and finally looks at Louis.

“You’re good, just—I dunno. I liked it more last time, I think.”

Louis furrows his brow. Last time was the one he decided he never wanted to repeat; the one when he had left Harry covered in blooms on blood just under his skin, when he had literally _hit_ him.

At Louis’ incredulous face, Harry withers like a flower.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s bad. But you asked, so… yeah. I was just thinking about it.”

Harry sounds so small, looks so unsure, and Louis is struck with a desire to gather Harry up in his arms, protect him from the cruelty of his self-depreciation. Harry should never feel like he’s bad, or that something he likes is bad, because Harry is so wholly _good_ _,_ the best person Louis knows.

Still, it’s a lot to process.

He moves up so that he’s lying on his side next to Harry, facing him so that they share the same breath, the same pillow, faces only centimetres apart. Harry’s expression is dejected, embarrassed, and he can see Harry’s gone soft. His own arousal is long-forgotten, anyway.

“Did you really like it?” Louis asks. His voice is soft, like an apology. “I thought you did, but—in the morning, I wasn’t sure.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Seeing you like that, and knowing I had done that to you… I felt so bad, Harry.”

Harry’s smiling, when Louis opens his eyes, but he can still see a trace of hurt in his lovely features. “I mean, you shouldn’t feel bad. I liked it. I just thought you thought it was, dunno, weird or something.”

“Oh, Harry, no,” Louis says. He strokes his thumb against his red cheeks, wanting to soothe away the hurt expression with his touch. “I loved that you liked it, honest. You were so hot, baby, so beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, I came so hard.”

Harry blushes delightfully, and his dimple fills at the praise. “Really? You liked it too?”

“Harry,” Louis groans. “So much.”

He’s glad Harry feels comfortable enough talking about it that he’s smiling, giggling a little, and his hands are back where they belong, on Louis’ chest.

“So, hypothetically, what would you like most?”

Harry smiles in that mischievous way of his. “Hypothetically, is it? Hypothetically, I’d like for my boyfriend to be shredded with dick that’s at least ten inches—”

Louis laughs and shoves him lightly. God, how he loves this boy.

“No, you buffoon. I meant it seriously. Like—I dunno. I feel like I should have known it sooner.”

Harry’s eyes soften. “You know me plenty. And about what I liked,” he says, and Louis can see a rosy blush returning to his face, “I liked when you spanked me.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks. He cradles every word Harry tells him to his heart, and he wants to know this part of Harry as intimately as he knows the others.

“Yeah.” Harry’s quieter now, introspective. “I liked the pain, I think. I liked, dunno, being in that position. I liked not being in control and having you do it.”

Louis smiles. “I loved that, Haz. You do this thing where you relax into me, and fuck, it’s so hot. You’re the fittest thing, baby.”

Harry squirms, but it’s a good one this time. “Yeah, god. I mean, you could probably tell, but yeah. I, um, I liked when you pulled my hair, obviously. When you bit my thighs, too…”

Louis laughs. “Kinky, baby.”

Harry scrunches his nose in faux-disgust, but it’s a few moments before he speaks up again. “Would you do it again, though? Like, spank me and stuff.”

Louis’ heart feels too full for his chest, at Harry’s admission, at the hint of insecurity lacing his tone, as if Louis would ever deny him anything. “Of course. As long as you like it, baby, I’m all for it. You wanna try something different, or like last time?”

Harry bites his lip. “I was thinking it could be a bit more separate? Just you spanking me, um, over your lap or something.”

“I can just try a few and see how you go, maybe?” Louis says. “If we need, we can always add more.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, smiling like Louis got something right.

And Louis—how Louis wants to get this right. 

\---

It’s never far from his mind, after that. 

Louis’ always been obsessed with Harry’s arse. He’s loved it, worshipped it, in any iteration and situation and adornment, and he loves it like he loves any part of Harry—overwhelmingly, completely.

And he knows Harry knows it, too, because for the two weeks until they get back to the comfort and familiarity of their home—better do it in safety, they decide—he can’t stop pinching it, tapping it, massaging it, lavishing it with love like a pre-apology for what’s to come.

So when they finally do, when they finally step inside their bedroom for the first time in months, there is a palpable tension in the air. They’re both jittery with anticipation and the knowledge of what’s coming; they’ve discussed it at length, the positions and techniques and implements, about where and how many and how much.

But before all that, before any pain or harshness, Louis has to make sure that Harry, his perfect Harry, is safe and loved.

They kiss for a long time, intertwined in the middle of the room that has been a haven for their love. Harry’s body curves against his own as if he wants to get closer, ever closer, to Louis’ being, and Louis cups Harry’s face gently, reverently, kissing him with all his heart.

He pulls away when Harry is syrupy and malleable, his lips plump and shiny with spit. He gazes at Louis with soft eyes as Louis undresses them both, slowly, placing kisses on each new area of skin as it is revealed.

Louis tucks a stray curl behind Harry’s ear. “You still wanna do this, yeah?”

Harry nods in his own way, sweet and slow.

Louis takes his hand and leads him to the bed, taking a seat on the edge and admiring Harry’s body standing in front of him.

He’s so perfect to him, to Louis, his long, broad chest and planes of definition, the shape of his hips, the pouch of his stomach and the fine trail of hair from his belly button, even the indents where his pants cut too tightly into his soft skin. He’s smiling shyly, and it illuminates his face.

“Alright, darling. You ready?” 

Harry bites his lip and nods so Louis guides him over his thighs, adjusts him so that he’s lying down and comfortable. It’s such an intimate position, really, with Harry’s head down and his ass exposed, the centrepiece. His thighs are secured by Louis’ own, and Louis rests his other hand across Harry’s back, keeping him down.

He’s trusting Louis with his sacred body, leaving him defenceless and prone in his most vulnerable parts, and this sheer amount of trust Harry has in him wells up a surge of love for this boy.

His skin is milky, delicate, untouched as yet, and Louis hungers for his mark on that perfect skin as much as he wants to preserve it, make sure it never comes into harm’s way. He massages the skin for one more second, warming it up for the blow.

“Just gonna be ten first, okay?” Louis says. “Just ten for now.”

Then he lifts his hand and brings it down. 

Harry breathes out a quiet _oh_ , and Louis can see the muscles in his back jump, can feel him exhale against his thigh. He rubs comforting circles into the dimples of Harry’s back.

“I’m gonna go again, okay?”

Harry nods and Louis brings down his hand again, and once more. He can feel Harry relaxing into the position as he becomes accustomed to the feeling, his muscles becoming less tense, and Louis admires the way the curve of his back becomes more pronounced as he moulds his limbs to the contours of Louis’ spread thighs.

Louis pauses after five, just to give them both a second to breathe. The fairest stain of pink decorates Harry’s ass, like a rosy patch of blush, and he looks beautiful. He tells Harry as much, and Harry shifts a little, body curling at the praise, and his cock presses into Louis’ thigh.

“You can go harder, Lou, I think.”

“Yeah? It feels okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, closing his eyes. “Feel like I could take more.”

He puts a little more force into the next blow, enough that his hand feels the impact too.

Harry reacts louder this time, an audible moan, but with the way he lifts his ass, presenting it to Louis, it was a good thing.

He can see Harry better this way, too, as he blooms with the impact of his blows, as he begins to move and squirm with every stroke as if he isn’t sure whether to meet Louis or escape it.

He aims the last hit just a little bit harder than the others.

“That’s ten, baby. You good to go on, yeah? Twenty more, like we discussed?” he asks, a little breathless himself, because the sight of Harry like this is so new, such a thrill.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, “I’m green.”

And oh, this code they discussed falling from Harry’s lips suddenly feels so intimate, like a reminder that he is in fact holding the precious pearl of Harry’s trust in his hands. He will do everything he can so that Harry loves it, so that Harry stays safe and loved.

“Let me know if you need to stop. Just say the word, beautiful baby.”

Harry hums and nuzzles his face into what he can reach of Louis’ leg and reaches to hold on to the base of Louis’ ankle. It’s like he wants to be connected, in some way, like he wants a physical tether, and Louis understands that completely in this moment because he wants nothing more than to make a home for himself in Harry’s bones.

“Alright.” Louis reaches to kiss what he can reach of Harry’s back, a pause to check his reaction for just one second longer, and then brings his hand down again, the hardest yet.

Harry falls apart as he continues. He falls apart so beautifully, with the way his little noises get louder, the way he clenches into the blow but relaxes the second after, like he’s succumbing to the pleasure-pain flooding his body. He’s flushed and panting from it, and skin is blooming red now, the blood under his skin agitated and it shouldn’t be as hot as it is, a simple mark like this, but god, it is.

He directs his hand lower, to where his thigh begins, and Harry moans _loud_ at that, kicking involuntarily. He’s sensitive there, the skin taut and unpadded, and Louis knows it hurts more, searing and overwhelming, but he doesn’t let up.

Because this was the point—this, the pain and pleasure intermingling, this was the goal, and he can feel the intoxicating proof of it.

Harry’s squirming, simultaneously trying to shield himself and move closer to the sweet torment of Louis’ hands, and Louis can feel his hard cock, slick with precome, smudge against his thigh. Harry’s so turned on he’s _leaking_ _,_ turning him sticky and messy and he feels so unbelievably close to Harry in that moment, coated in the proof of what he is doing to Harry, for Harry, for them both.

It’s as far as heaven goes, Louis thinks, deliriously, because no paradise in the world can compare to Harry’s soft breaths, his little whines, and the way he can see the pleasure ripple through his entire body as it tenses.

And if anyone’s a god, it’s Harry. The only sacred icons he needs are Harry’s back, damp with sweat, his sweat-damp curls, his neck, flushed red, his toes, even, curling as he sighs, his hole, pinching with each impact.

“Harry,” Louis breathes. He feels overcome by it all, feels like he’s on the brink of descending into something primal, but a soft whine from Harry pulls him back.

He wants this to be amazing for Harry. He wants the lines of pleasure and pain to be blurred for him, where the sting of another slap is soothed by his cock grinding against Louis’ thigh, where each taps the same centre of Harry’s brain, and where each feeling borders the other so closely that they are indistinguishable.

But—those lines are blurred for him too. He loves seeing Harry like this, loves seeing rose patches blossom across his skin at his own hand, but he also likes it for himself. He likes that he’s setting the pace, the force, the position. There’s a part of him that relishes control, that preens at being able to direct Harry like this, to move him the way he wants. It’s not a punishment, not a discipline; it’s Louis, doing something for Harry, the boy he loves.

Because it _is_ about love, he realises. It’s just another way to show Harry that he cares, that he listens to him and wants to do anything, everything, with him.

He lands the last strike the hardest of all, and he knows it feels twofold with Harry’s added sensitivity, knows it with the way Harry’s hips jerk and he cries out a _Louis_ _,_ spilling his name from his lips like a prayer.

“Harry, Harry,” he cries brokenly, because he will always answer.

He gathers Harry up, pulls him into his chest and rearranges them so that Harry is lying with his chest on the bed, hips just over the edge.

“Please,” Harry pants, stretching his hips back into Louis’ hands. “Please, I wanna come so bad, Lou.”

Louis kneels behind him, and—god, this way, it’s everything.

Harry’s cracked open with the angle, split to show his hole, but Louis spreads him further with his hands, as far as he will go. It’s intoxicating, being so close to this secret, base part of Harry. His breath makes his hole squeeze at the feeling, as it always does. It’s entirely different, though, being so close it when it’s crimson red with impact, so close he can feel the heat of it against his lips with his kisses.

“Gonna eat you out, okay?” he asks as he thumbs over Harry’s hole and bites lightly at the back of his thigh. “That okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry keens. “Please, Lou, please.”

He eats Harry out messily, with too much spit in his fervour, and he’s rough with it, too, not sparing his teeth. His stubble scratches slightly on Harry’s tender flesh, and Louis thinks that much stimulation must be agonising, but then again, it’s Harry, who is a wonderous mess with pain.

He can tell when Harry gets close with the way his thighs tense and his hole flutters, contracting around Louis’ tongue. It’s insanely hot, like Harry is trying to pull him inside.

He reaches his hand around to Harry and tugs his cock. Harry’s too wet to need lube, and he’s too far gone to care, anyway, jerking into the grasp and it’s only one, two, strokes before he spills out with a cry.

Louis finishes himself off a few moments later, using Harry’s come to slick his hand as he strips his cock mercilessly, rough like he’s never been on himself. He’s mad with the feeling, with all they have done.

He recovers for a few breaths against Harry’s back before soothing Harry, gathering him up in his arms and laying him on the soft bed.

Harry is quiet, and his eyes are closed though they flutter with his exhales. Louis brushes along the curves of his cheeks, his browbone. Harry is so delicate in structure, so easily breakable.

“Baby,” he whispers, soft as to not break the quiet. “You did so well, so perfectly. You’re so gorgeous, gorgeous like this. You know that, darling?”

He cleans Harry with a cloth and rubs a soothing lotion into his hot flesh, murmuring praises all the while. He knows Harry might be in a headspace where everything is sugary and slow, but he hopes his voice, the knowledge that he is near, is enough to soothe him.

Harry hums, a delayed answer or appreciation of the feeling, and his lashes flutter once more. By the time Louis puts the tube down and lies down again next to him, he has opened his eyes and he gazes at Louis softly, smiling faintly, and the expression is so full of love that Louis has to kiss him.

“Are you okay?” he checks, because this is important. “Does it hurt too much? I can put some more cream, if you need.”

Harry hums. “No, it’s fine. It feels good, honestly.”

“Okay,” Louis smiles, kissing the tip of his nose. “I’m glad.”

And tomorrow, they will discuss it all in detail; what they liked, what they didn’t, what they could do in the future. Tomorrow, there will be time for that.

But now, as sleep lures them both, their shared heartbeats simply echo words of love. It’s a spectrum of infinite possibility, being with Harry in any way he wants. Anything they do is love.

And, well. Louis likes it most when they make love.


End file.
